


The Darkest Paths

by HeironymousPosh



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: A Heiress, Blood and Gore, Courtyard, Hamlet - Freeform, Lore - Freeform, Lore-building, Other, flagellants, more eldritch nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-12-30 01:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeironymousPosh/pseuds/HeironymousPosh
Summary: Autumn comes and with it rain. With the rain, come the mosquitoes. But they are inexhaustible, omnipresent, and seemingly as famished as ever.The discovery of an old ruin sparks the interest of all in the hamlet of Tauros. What treasures might be waiting within the courtyard? And what forgotten horrors lurk there? Emilia Lancette goes into the field for the first time, with the ever-sturdy bounty hunter Alasdair by her side, to come to terms with a monstrous piece of her family's twisted legacy that has returned to haunt her. Part 4 of a series.





	1. The Errand

Alasdair caught the mosquito perhaps a few seconds too late. The disgusting little creature popped beneath his palm, and he could feel a tiny rivulet of blood run down his forearm. It had managed to get a taste of him, but he made certain that was the last it would ever have.

_ They’re fucking everywhere _ , Alasdair noted, as another buzzed past his head, seeking another target.  _ Why won’t anyone ever put a bounty on bugs? They’re easy to kill.  _

In spite of the fact that it was now late October and the cold northern winds would soon rush down from the hinterlands beyond even the hardiest of Fidachann outposts, the miniscule insects were legion. Inescapable and insatiable, they bothered every single person and even the town’s domestic animals; as Alasdair passed through the keep’s main gate he could see the sentries up on the gatehouse battling the bugs, swatting at them idly.

He figured he would find Emilia to ask about a succinct solution to the problem, but she would likely be occupied as usual with the constant influx of demands and requests from around the county. Yet when he arrived, she was nowhere to be seen. Her  _ desk  _ was occupied, covered in envelopes and half-written letters and a plethora of miscellanea, but the woman herself was absent. Alasdair could feel his cheeks begin to burn as he realized that he was standing in the middle of the hall, staring up at the empty desk mounted atop the stone dais, and that the guards at the main door were now staring at him. 

_ There’s one other place she would be _ , he knew.  _ And if not there...well, out of luck for today. _

Alasdair quickly backtracked and made his way further into the depths of the keep, passing by exhausted guardsmen and meek retainers as he moved with purpose. Eventually the dim hallways grew even darker, and the smell of earth and mold tested his nostrils as he arrived at the heavyset oak and iron door, lacking any form of inscription or decor, that informed him that he had reached the archives.

Emilia’s work desk was also empty, even though several heavy-looking tomes rested in a precipitous position near the edge of the table. She must have been deeper into the library, and so Alasdair lit a small torch and made his way into the sea of literature in hopes of fishing her out. 

He didn’t have to look for long. All he had to do was seek out her torchlight, which put her position near the back of the room, surveying several dessicated scrolls. She perked up when she heard his footsteps and looked surprised to see him. 

“Alasdair,” she greeted him. “Something wrong?”

“No more than usual,” he said. “I figured I’d find you down here.”

“There’s a lot of work to be done,” she excused herself, setting the scrolls she had collected back in their place. “Not getting anywhere fast.”

“Shall we take a break, then?”

Alasdair was in no mood to waste time. He was antsy, and he knew there was something she could find for him to do. She looked a little taken aback to be so harshly torn away from her important project, whatever it might be, but she immediately relented and led the way back out of the archives, up the stairs, and back to the main room. 

“My work in the past week hasn’t been entirely fruitless,” she said as she took her seat upon the dais once again. The vast quantity of unanswered letters, half-written replies, and scatterbrained thoughts were swept aside in favor of one small leatherbound book, which Emilia took possession of and immediately opened.

“Well, that’s good,” Alasdair said. 

“I’ve been digging in my grandfather’s archives again and while I haven’t quite found what I’m looking for,” Emilia said, opening up the book and poring through its yellowing pages. “I found something else.”

“Something for me?”

“I’ve got a new job for you.”

_ And may it be a more fulfilling one _ , Alasdair thought to himself.  _ The last one went poorly. And that’s putting it lightly.  _

He waited for a few moments as she flipped to the page that she was seeking and then bid him to approach. 

At first glance Alasdair could only understand the smeared writing on the page as scribbles, illegible and aged by the constant march of time. But on further analysis he could see some method to what he had perceived as madness; it was, in spite of its weathered status, definable as a map. 

_ But a map of what? _

“My grandfather drew this out almost a century ago. 1622,” Emilia informed him.

“A map?”

“A map,” she confirmed. “And an odd one at that.”

“Can’t really see much to it,” Alasdair admitted. 

“My grandfather was an odd one. I had a hard time with it at first too,” Emilia said. “But I figured it out. It’s directions.”

“Directions to where?”

Emilia shrugged. “I’m not quite certain,” she admitted. “That’s where you come in.”

“You want me to...figure out this map?”

“I want you to find where it leads, and tell me what’s there.”

“Where do you think it leads?”

“It’s somewhere north of here. That much I know,” she said, turning it back around so she could look at it again. “It describes some place isolated from the main hamlet...accessibility is questionable.”

“I’ve been in rough terrain before,” Alasdair reminded her, with a spot of pride. “I can handle it.”

“I don’t want you going alone,” she started to chastise him.

“I’ll pick out a few good people to take with me,” he promised. “People I can trust.”

“Good.”

She handed the booklet to him, map and all. She also handed him a slip of parchment that appeared to act as a legend, giving the map some character and giving him insight into her grandfather’s deranged scribblings and confused notation. 

“I don’t know what to expect,” she warned him. “So be careful.”

“I always am, aren’t I?”

“You’ve almost died twice,” Emilia reminded him sternly. He chuckled as though to brush it off, but she was right.  _ Well, I didn’t almost die that first time... doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad.  _

_ Now the second encounter -  with that mean bastard with the crossbow - that was rough.  _

“We’ll take great caution,” he promised, even if it was just to assuage her. It seemed to work, as she flashed him a smile redolent of a mother’s relief, and then seemed to figure that their business was concluded. Alasdair, however, had one more item on his list to cover.

“Before we depart-”

“It’s about your payment, yes?”

She stopped him cold in his tracks.  _ The woman knows me _ , he thought _ , knows me too well.  _

“Yes.” 

“I suppose I do owe it to you,” she said, frowning. The subject must have been a sensitive one to her. 

“He was dead. I brought him back dead.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” she reminded him. 

“Well, he was still dead-”

“He killed himself. Slipped and fell off into a ravine, if I recall the report?”

“You didn’t mention that as an exception in the contract,” Alasdair pointed out bluntly. He was not going to play games with his reward money. 

“You’re generally supposed to be the one doing the killing.”

“I would’ve killed him anyway,” Alasdair said, snorting.  _ Fat bastard could wield a spear like a true warrior, but he ran like a toddler once I ripped that thing out of his hands.  _

“I believe you.”

“So you’ll pay me in full?”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“Write better contracts in the future,” Alasdair suggested, with a wry smile. Emilia was on the cusp of admonishing him for his overt comment but relented and returned the expression. She was not one to chastise without fair reason.

“I need to improve my writing,” Emilia clucked, gently chastising herself. “I should’ve added an extra clause. Dear me.”

“I’ll set out within three days,” Alasdair promised, glad that the outstanding business had been cared for. “And we’ll find what’s out there.”

He nestled the book between his arm and his flank and departed. 

* * *

 

Alasdair had not been outside for more than two minutes before the first mosquito made an attempt at him. This time he was ready, however, and quickly killed it before it was able to take a stab. He was getting better, but they were constantly vigilant, waiting for him to make a mistake and open his defenses for their delight.

_ Half of the problem is the water _ , he noted as he stepped out of the keep’s enclosure and saw once more a landscape of murky puddles and disdainfully unmaintained drainage ditches. The constant storms had swamped the peninsula to the point that water was inescapable, and the insects had most likely originated from the stagnant pools rendered into breeding pits. 

_ They’re awfully big though _ , he noted as he saw yet another one surveying his head.  _ Bigger than they should be.  _

He decided to ignore the insect problem and focus on the matter of his bounty - what he was being paid for, after all. Emilia had given him the order to assemble a team, men and women that he trusted and could count on.

She didn’t say they had to be on good terms. Just... trustworthy.

And he knew exactly the first person to look for.

He passed a squalid collection of ramshackle tents on his left as he made his way towards the western gate, the only main entrance in and out of the town. At the point where the Old Road met the gatehouse and became part of the hamlet’s labyrinth of cobblestone pathways, a giant cancerous organism of brown and gray cloth had taken root, spreading over the sodden fields adjacent to the keep like malignant bacteria. The tents and hovels belonged of course to the Desecrated Men; even Alasdair, being as agnostic as he was, had come to despise the vast majority of them. 

Even now, a small troupe of them was emerging from the makeshift city and moving towards the main road, knotted scourges and packed bandages in hand, ready for their monotonous daily flagellation. As Alasdair passed by, they began shouting in hoarse, strained voices, crying out for salvation and support while riddling their backs with the thickly-wound ropes. The loose, filthy clothing that they wore did little to soften the blows, and Alasdair found himself involuntarily cringing as he heard the  _ thwack  _ of fiber against flesh as he passed.

_ No shame, or responsibility _ . Any thoughts of such were drowned in the flowing of blood and the din that arose from their dehydrated throats as they went on their perfunctory march. The few peasants who found themselves adjacent to the flagellants quickly moved aside and went about their own business, refusing to interact with the strange outsiders who, for all intents and purposes, had invaded Tauros. 

He passed their camp in short order and made his way out of the town, where it was a short walk to the aviary where he knew that Sigrid Ausfersson would be, tending to her beloved creatures in solitude. 

_ A solitude that I am about to interrupt _ , he thought, something that he found amusing.  _ The last person that she wants to speak to in this town is me, I’m sure.  _

He did not bother announcing his presence but quietly, respectfully entered the confines of the aviary. The interior, divided into two segments separated by a thick wall of rough oak wood, was dark and smelled of mold and bird, but Sigrid had always found the place strangely comforting. She was not far from the entryway, either; tending to a rabbit carcass that she was skinning and deboning, she did not notice Alasdair until he was nearly on top of her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, not even bothering to turn around to face him. She continued with her drudgery without pause.

“I missed seeing you,” he replied.

She scoffed.

“Don’t you feel the same?”

She paused her work and turned to him now. Her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks had retracted noticeably, giving her a general haggard look. “Can I help you?”

“I need to ask you,” Alasdair said. “Emilia wants me to put together an expedition to scout out some old part of the estate that we have not stumbled upon yet. Let’s be honest, you’re one of the best scouts in this place.”

“High praise,” she scoffed, and briefly turned back to her meat, tearing off several strips and flinging them over her right shoulder. Somewhere farther back, out of Alasdair’s line of sight, the sound of fluttering wings and shrieking could be heard. 

“I need people I can rely upon. People who are field tested. I don’t know exactly what to expect-”

“You think you can rely on me?”

“I’m not asking you to be my friend.”

“Good. Cause I wouldn’t be.”

“But I know you’re a competent scout and a reliable fighter in the field,” Alasdair said, growing frustrated in short order. “You’re the kind of person I need. The kind of person  _ we _ need.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” Sigrid scoffed, but then her tone became more serious. “I suppose I can lend you a hand.”

“I need help assembling a team of people, too,” Alasdair informed her. “This will be a difficult adventure. I need more people like you.”

Sigrid paused, raising a single weathered finger to her chin as though it helped her consider his proposition. Somewhere within the depths of the mew, a bird screeched, and her mind was made up.

“Give me three days, and I will have your team.”


	2. No Man's Land

Alasdair took one last glance back to see if he could still see the manor perched upon that desolate moor, but he only met Sigrid’s steely gaze and averted his eyes quickly. 

Tauros and the Lancette estate had been left behind as they continued to follow the coast, trying to stay as close to the shoreline as possible to avoid the deeper, thicker parts of the weald. The corrupt forest had spread its tendrils all the way to the very edge of the peninsula, its diseased flora mere meters from the water at some points. So far, they had avoided the weald’s usual denizens, but Alasdair could not count on their luck holding forever. 

“You don’t understand the art,” someone from behind him said. 

“What art?”

Alasdair turned his head in such a way that he could avoid Sigrid’s eternal glare and still take stock of the company behind him.

_ A bounty hunter, a falconer, a self-professed trapmaker, a sneak thief, a yeoman, and a man with a dog _ , he counted them off.  _ What an odd little team we make.  _

More accustomed to hunting alone than with companions, Alasdair wasn’t sure what to make of the column of diverse adventurers tailing him. Other than Audrey and the trapmaker, who appeared to be locked in a heated debate over the latter’s beloved craft, none of them had spoken much since departing Tauros. 

“I knew a lot of lads back home who learned how to trap mice and birds when they were just toddlers,” Audrey said, and the trapmaker (whose name remained unknown to Alasdair) grimaced visibly.

“Where did you come from?”

“Grew up farther south,” she replied. “Herolion. In Nara.”

“A big city,” the trapmaker muttered.

“Things were different down south. You learned certain skills or you die,” she said. 

“But you have yet to see what true trapmaking can be,” he rebutted. “I’ll-”

“Quiet back there,” Sigrid snapped, the first words she had spoken on the entire expedition. “This is no place for conversation.”

Audrey shot a snarky comment her way, but both of them fell silent afterwards. They could tell by the tone of her voice that she would not yield an inch to them, and their argument was swiftly forgotten as the group entered rougher terrain, forced to take a detour into the weald itself due to a cleft in the shoreline that had become filled with seawater. 

The detour would not last long but Alasdair realized that they were now quite far from human settlement, and he had no idea what they might find this far into the weald. Remy, perched in a circumspect manner on Sigrid’s shoulder, made a few low grumbling sounds as they passed into a particularly deep part of the forest, where blighted spores filled the air and the foliage at ground level grew thick and gnarly and stank of premature rot. Thankfully, they emerged into a thinner patch of woods not long after, and eventually the shrubland gave way to an actual stretch of rocky beach that separated that loathsome wood from the endless expanse of foamy gray water that ringed the Tauros peninsula. 

It was then that Alasdair realized he had no clue where he was.

_ Damn me,  _ he cursed himself internally, and ordered the party to stop with a raised fist. Immediately, sensing danger, the party members fanned out and prepared to draw weapons, but Alasdair did no such thing and instead called Sigrid forward wordlessly.

“I need to see what’s ahead of us, and if there’s something out there,” he said. “Can you send Remy out?”

“We might be here a little bit. If he spots a rabbit or a d-”

“That’s fine, just let him take flight. He could use some exercise, I bet.”

Sigrid nodded her assent, and clucked to Remy, shrugging her off of her shoulder as she did. The falcon effortlessly took flight, leaping away from her and launching himself into the air with incredible speed. As he vanished over the horizon, disappearing behind the canopy of sickly leaves demarcating the upper reaches of the weald, Alasdair retrieved the notebook and map from his satchel to get his head straightened out. 

Sigrid stepped off to the side and tried to spot Remy’s position to no avail. Alasdair, meanwhile, opened up the notebook and glanced at the crude, hand drawn map found within before taking a glance at the actual map that one of the keep’s retainers had provided him. The real map was detailed, possessed well-defined boundaries and geographical borders, and was legible. The hand drawn map, on the other hand, would prove to be a far greater challenge.

“What’s the holdup?”

Someone from behind was pestering him. The voice could only belong to Audrey the sneak thief, who was now peering over his shoulder and attempting to read one of the two maps. Alasdair recoiled quickly, turning around to face her and hiding the maps from her view.

“Meant no offense,” she apologized hastily, noticing his discomfort.

“You surprised me,” he returned. “I need to get our location.”

“Are we lost?”

Alasdair did some sort of half-laugh, half-grunt, acknowledging the ridiculousness of such a proposition.

“Can’t hardly be lost if we’re just following the shore,” he said.

“Fair enough.”

“I need to see how far we are from our destination, though,” he informed her. “And that’s all you need to know.”

“Alright, mate,” she backed down, holding up her hands as if to say  _ don’t need to tell me twice.  _ “I meant no offense, s’okay.”

Alasdair did not respond to her. He had been rudely interrupted, by an outlaw and a grave robber no less, and he was growing weary of the useless map he had been given. Keeping one eye on Sigrid, who was now wandering further away from the party, he returned his attention to the hand drawn map that had proved so frustrating.

_ There’s a lot of information here _ , he noted.  _ Too much. What am I to do with all of this? _

The map showed more than just Tauros. It showed the entire peninsula that the barony rested on, and then some. Virtually the entirety of the Duchy of Berolium, from the frigid taiga to the north to the disputed southern border of Amalsium, was marked up on that map.

_ Barony of Tauros...Hawk Barony...Barony of the Berries...Barony of Namros… _

But nothing...nothing was marked on the map at the location that would be their destination. With the exception of the ruins of the Lancette estate, marked with a simple inky jot, the map showed nothing along the coastline between Tauros and the port up at Lorhampton, on the border with the northern lands. 

_ Is there really nothing out here? Or were people so quick to move on from this part of the region?  _

Alasdair could feel himself growing more frustrated as he turned to the other map, which had marked up this part of the coastline with mentions of all sorts of monuments and locations. The makeshift map, a relic of a bygone era, was telling him that he should be surrounded by civilization. It presented grand manors, spacious parks, great monuments, and open-air fairgrounds where Alasdair saw only wood, loam, and rock. 

_ This whole map could be a practical joke _ , Alasdair thought, and was about to discard the frustrating piece of ancient vellum when Sigrid whistled and broke him from his focused trance. Remy was returning, and by the concerned look on Sigrid’s face he should not have come back so soon. Alasdair pocketed both documents, figuring that danger was near and reading could wait until later. 

“He’s seen something,” Sigrid informed him as he drew near. The bird was coming in low over the trees, rushing back to his retainer, swooping in without delay. Whatever he had seen had given him cause to return in a hasty manner, and Alasdair found that his hand had reached for his axe instinctively, even though they had no idea what was out there.

Remy alighted upon Sigrid’s shoulder but did not appear distressed or aggressive. More or less, the bird seemed perplexed, clucking in an unsettled manner and ruffling his feathers up. Sigrid did not seem to understand at all; as for Alasdair, he was even more clueless.

“He’s seen something of interest,” Sigrid finally decided, having studied Remy’s motions for a short minute. “But I don’t think we’re in danger.”

“Shame. I wouldn’t mind a fight,” Alasdair grumbled.

“Well, what do you want to do?”

Alasdair glanced back at the huddle of adventurers behind them. They were all waiting on his decision.

_ Don’t count on me _ , he wanted to tell them.  _ I shouldn’t be your leader.  _

But, at least for the day, he actually  _ was.  _

“We’re moving onwards,” he announced, keeping his weapon sheathed for the time being. “Single file. Eyes open.”

They formed a single-file line with haste and moved back into the forest, sticking as close to the shoreline as possible. In some places, the trees met the sea, with the brackish water leaping up to meet the gnarled roots like an excited dog greeting its master. The terrain was uncouth but navigable, and visibility along the coast was decent as the trees there were smaller and less overgrown. It was for that reason that Alasdair spotted the first anomaly with time to spare - on a sandbar about a quarter of a mile ahead, something had washed up. 

It did not appear to be detritus or a rock, but something else, something unusual. Alasdair hesitantly led the way forward, keeping his alert eyes trained on whatever might be waiting for him on that precipitous spit of sand. 

* * *

 

_ A man.  _

Alasdair was now standing less than twenty-five feet away from the washed-up body. Alive or dead, the person laying on a beached shaft of sodden driftwood was a potential threat, and Alasdair had ordered his team to hunker down in some nearby brush while he scoped out the situation and decided on a move. 

_ In all likelihood he is dead _ , Alasdair thought to himself, noting that the man had not moved in the past five minutes.  _ But dead things here do not stay dead.  _

He was just drawing up a plan of action when the figure began to squirm, its every movement obviously agonized and drawn. 

“Alasdair,” Sigrid whispered, nearly breathless. They were watching the dead man come back to life. Alasdair had no time to spare, and bid Sigrid to follow him as he leapt out of the brush and rushed out onto the spit, heedless of his own safety. Whatever was out there would either face his wrath, or see his mercy.

The figure turned out to be a living human being, and one untouched by evil or corruption as far as Alasdair could tell. The man, sunburned and visibly bloated from malnutrition, wore little more than scraps of gray and brown rags covering the most sensitive areas of his body. One of those rags had been placed strategically over his face, protecting his senses from the relentless assault of the daylight, and that rag was removed as the two approached.

The man’s facial features were strained and worn by dehydration and exposure but he was clearly lucid and recognized functioning human beings immediately. He attempted to rise from his driftwood bed but struggled to get up past his knees, such was his condition. Alasdair arrived at his position quickly and in a single move withdrew and uncorked his waterskin, handing it to the beleaguered castaway. The stranger took it and greedily gulped down perhaps half of the waterskin, partaking in a luxury that had been denied to him for perhaps a day or more. 

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice weak and hoarse. Dehydration had taken a great toll on him, clearly, and Alasdair wondered how long ago he had washed up on shore, and what his fate would have been if they hadn’t stumbled upon him. 

“Take it easy. Have some more if you’d like,” Alasdair offered. He glanced back at Sigrid, but she had not yet removed her waterskin and offered it. Remy was perched on her shoulder, nervously glancing from her, to the strange man, and back. 

“A moment, please,” the man asked, attempting to recuperate. “I... thank you.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A day, perhaps,” he replied, after another swig from the waterskin. He returned it to Alasdair, visibly empowered now and able to stand up on uncertain legs. “Perhaps more.”

“How long have you been without water?”

“About the same amount of time.” Having a good, solid drink had visibly rejuvenated him and he was standing steady now, facing his rescuers and speaking with a clearer tongue.

“Where are you from?”

“Arretium. Sailed out of Bessarios a week and a half ago,” he replied. “I am Neumon.”

“Neumon? I’m Alasdair.”

“A pleasure.”

“You were sailing?”

“Up to Lorhampton. Had to skirt the peninsula,” Neumon informed him. 

“And what happened?”

Neumon hesitated, and shrugged his shoulders as though he had no answer to give.

“I don’t remember.”

He motioned for another drink and Alasdair handed his waterskin over. The shipwrecked Neumon drained almost the entirety of what remained, such was his thirst.

“I wish I could remember. It’s a blur, and my head hurts,” Neumon said. “It was a stormy night. But not a normal one.”

“Two nights ago,” Audrey said from behind them. 

“Aye,” the trapmaker agreed with her. “We had a bad one.”

“Tore part of the roof off the chapel,” Audrey said.

“Shame,” another added his voice. “They just refurbished it.”

Alasdair figured that it had been a run of bad luck that had marooned this sailor.  _ Well, your luck has turned,  _ he thought as he watched the bedraggled Neumon glance around at the other members of the party.  _ We’ll take you home.  _

“We’ve got to get you some shelter and some food in your belly,” Alasdair informed him. “We’ll take you back to the village. Tauros.”

“My crew-”

“We’ve got hot food and good drink-”

“My crew. Did any…”

Neumon’s eyes lit up for a moment, a last deposit of hope enlivening him for a split second. But he turned to Sigrid, and she shook her head.

“We haven’t picked up anyone else. Nothing else has washed ashore,” Alasdair informed him. The sullen look of defeat returned to Neumon’s eyes, and he fell silent as the trapmaker wrapped a steadfast cloak around his shoulders and began to lead him back. Neumon hobbled along, his left leg clearly injured, and the houndmaster moved to assist him as they departed. It was in that moment that Alasdair caught a glimpse of something through the foliage before him - on the other side of the sandbar, through a narrow clearing in the dessicated leaves and gnarled branches.

“We’ll need to take him back and see if we can get anything else out of him,” Sigrid said, but quickly noticed that Alasdair was not listening. She frowned and moved closer, sensing something was amiss.

“Alasdair-”

“Hold that thought.”

“Alasdair. We need to go back.”

“Your bird didn’t come back because he spotted this castaway,” Alasdair said, already moving across the sandbar towards the trees on the other side.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sigrid called out.

“He spotted something else.”

All eyes in the party, with the exception of those of the defeated castaway who longed now for nothing else but his trusted vessel (which now, almost certainly, rested at the bottom of the sea along with all hands), turned towards Alasdair as he crashed into the forest, breaking branches and stepping in forlorn mud as he ran.

Sigrid swore audibly and ran after him. 

The forest gave way to open shrubbery within a minute, and before he knew it Alasdair was out of the woods and standing on the precipice over what could only be described as a great swamp.

Sigrid arrived behind him moments after and the two could only stand there for a few seconds and attempt to process the gargantuan mire, its contemporary dimensions unknown and certainly forgotten by any who had attempted to visualize it before, that stretched all the way out to the sea. The peat-ridden bog met the ocean at a great estuary, where the murky mire water became saltier and more turgid, but it was not the swamp that finally drew Alasdair’s eye.

It was what was on the other side. 


	3. A Wall Between Worlds

“A wall, you say?”

“Yes, a wall.”

“Big?”

“No, not really- well, it covers a lot of ground. But it’s not tall.”

“Mmhm.”

“A man could climb over it, if he were athletic enough.”

Behind him, Alasdair could hear Dismas audibly snicker. He glanced over and saw the highwayman elbow his companion in the ribs, attempting to tick him off. 

“ _ Athletic? Looks like you’re out of the picture, mate _ ,” Dismas whispered, smirking at Reynauld. The crusader, dressed up in full plate armor sans helmet, did not appear amused at the quip, and ignored his companion entirely.

“And you saw it appears to be surrounded by a swamp?”

He returned his attention to Emilia. For the past ten minutes, she had been relentless, but Alasdair could understand why. The discovery had stirred up the metaphorical hive in the village, prompting gossip to spread like a volatile plague, and Emilia seemed particularly interested in the expedition’s returns. 

“As far as I could see,” Alasdair said. “The whole complex seemed bounded by a bog, all the way up to the wall.”

“And could you see anything beyond the wall?”

“No.”

“Anything within the wall?”

“What do you mean?”

“Gate, a broken-down segment, towe-”

“Nothing in particular,” Alasdair said. “But again...we didn’t survey the entire perimeter.”

“Understood.”

Emilia had been taking judicious notes during the entire interrogation, and she let them wait a bit as she finished her thoughts and pushed the papers aside. 

“Thank you for your information, Alasdair,” Emilia said. “Your expedition has been most helpful.”

“Well, I-”

“Emilia.”

Alasdair was interrupted, but there was nothing he could do when Reynauld spoke. All eyes in the room swiveled towards the crusader, bearing his full suit of armor and demanding attention.

“Reynauld?” Emilia returned. 

“We’ve been through this before,” Reynauld said. “Let’s not go through it again. Is there something you know that you haven’t told us?”

Reynauld had left her no option by publicly calling her out. She had crossed her arms and her mouth had assumed a furtive frown but she had no escape route open to her here.

“I know that there are old, abandoned estates up the coastline that once belonged to my family. That is all I have read.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all,” Emilia said, putting her hand on her chest as though swearing an oath. “I know no more than that.”

Reynauld nodded his head to affirm her. Alasdair could feel discomfort begin to creep in, and turned back to Emilia to finish their business.

“I have cause to believe that what we’ve found is a large estate, if not more than that,” Alasdair informed her. “What course of action do you want to pursue?”

“Further exploration is required. We’ve got a lot of questions to answer,” Emilia began, and Alasdair was about to offer his further services when she interrupted him, bringing with her an immediate surprise.

“But we are going to face this full-on. No more will the history of this land remain hidden,” she declared, sounding as though she were building up to some grand pronouncement. 

“You wish for me to put together another team?” Alasdair asked. 

_ As long as it involves more money _ , he thought, but Emilia waved her hand at him in a dismissive manner. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she informed him. “I will put it together myself.”

“You...what?”

“I will lead the expedition,” Emilia declared. “It is time for me to do my part and take back my old home.”

* * *

 

Alasdair was no stranger to waking up before dawn - sleeping light was part and parcel of his occupation. As he took a moment to look down at the resting Tauros, its houses and hovels and industry all asleep, he pondered the issue being laid out in front of him. Waking up at three in the morning, when the quiet hamlet was still bathed in cloud-veiled moonlight, was not the issue. It was the conditions of their departure that gave him pause

Emilia had been expressing reservations about the nature of the expedition publicly, enough that it had made Alasdair wonder if they would set out at all. The baroness had been fretting indiscreetly about the potential problems they could face, about supply issues, and whether or not this expedition would be worthwhile at all. She had spent her nights poring over old literature and fading maps in the archives, unwilling to see visitors and barely eating. 

_ How much can three days change a person? Plenty, apparently _ , Alasdair thought to himself as he took his place near the vanguard of the column that was surreptitiously departing the town’s environs under cover of darkness. 

He was not particularly familiar with any of the adventurers standing with the baroness at the head of the convoy. He knew Audrey the sneak thief, the grave robber turned personal guard who seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time with Emilia, and he knew the name of the Desecrated Man who had brought along several of his companions - Emiliano, an outsider who had distinguished himself by publicly flogging one of his companions who had been caught attempting to assault a local woman. Alasdair did not know the context of the incident, but whatever had occurred had elevated his status among his own followers as well as among the townsfolk. Some might even begrudgingly respect him, even if the general opinion of the discomfiting extremists had become increasingly negative in recent days as they had made their presence known around the town.

The others, Alasdair did not know. They were an odd collection of misfits, ex-criminals, outcasts, mercenaries, bondsmen, and adventurers who were bound together by the same twin incentives: the reward of gold, and the reward of experiencing the most twisted nightmares the world could offer. 

_ For some men and women, that is a draw _ , Alasdair knew.  _ Me? I’ll stick with the gold.  _

They marched along the base of the moor, the estate’s ruined frame overlooking them the entire time, watching them like some menacing sentry marking their every move. Alasdair kept pace with the party but found his gaze constantly drawn up towards the mansion, its subtle menace drawing his attention and making him nervous. For the first time since his ill-fated arrival at Tauros, he was glad to be entering the confines of the weald, where he could no longer glimpse the crest of the moor or that shameful estate which crowned it.

Whatever denizens of the weald were lurking amid its foliage in the predawn hours, they had no interest in accosting the party of thirty-three as they made their way along a broad path towards the shoreline. Although this was the same path that he had taken during his initial expedition, Alasdair felt like he no longer recognized certain landmarks that he had selected three days ago, so overgrown were they with loathsome foliage and noisome trails of vibrant vines. Large boulders or open stumps that he had used to mark the progress of their passage were now almost entirely obscured by the undergrowth, an unwelcome surprise. 

It wasn’t long before they found the shore. They followed the water after that, sticking as near to the sea as possible to avoid spending an inordinate amount of time in the poisonous weald. At one point, they were forced to walk single file, and Alasdair found himself behind a queer-looking individual dressed in thick woolen robes, cinched at the waist with an odd-looking belt, with a hood and a freakish mask covering their face and head. The mask could only be described as an impression of a bird, with a hooked beak fastened together with thin leather straps, and two apertures that were the only visible openings in the whole costume. Alasdair could not tell if the suit was occupied by a man or a woman but he was not about to strike up a conversation.

_ Strange people come to Tauros _ , he thought to himself.  _ I should not be surprised.  _

He spat out a bitter taste in his mouth and took to making passing observations about the surrounding environments. Within a few minutes they were at the bog. 

Emilia, at the head of the column, stopped as Audrey came up alongside her. The two exchanged whispered words that Alasdair could not hear; he cared not, though, for his attention was fixated entirely on the swamp.

The vast estuary stretched before him once more, bounded on the other side by a low stone wall that almost tangibly beckoned them to come meet it. Here and there the water flowed lazily, but for the most part it remained stagnant, pooling around small islands of mud and peat where scrappy foliage grew. Nearer to the ocean, the swamp’s current picked up pace and began to intensify as it flowed out to meet the great body of water it bordered, but Alasdair had already picked out three points nearby where they could safely cross to the other side.

_ We’d get wet, but that would certainly beat drowning _ . Getting wet was inevitable, anyway; there was no complete crossing in sight. 

“Have you ever seen anything quite like it?” Audrey asked.

“No,” Emilia replied. “This is a first.”

Alasdair sidled up alongside them, still studying potential routes of movement across the bayou. If Emilia really wanted to get to the other side, it would be feasible, but by Alasdair’s observations the water at some points was up to five feet deep, which would be difficult to ford for most of them. It was hard to tell but the water might be even deeper at some points, and his hesitation grew the more he thought about it.

“Well, Alasdair?” 

He turned to Emilia, who was looking at him as if expecting a report or some helpful advice.

“Has anything changed?” she followed up. 

“It looks the same,” he said. “Same as it was.”

“Do you think we can cross?”

Alasdair wished in that moment that Sigrid, at the very least, was with him. Though he had plenty of experience with rough terrain and he had been in tight spots before, he wasn’t a dedicated scout. Sigrid, along with her bird, would be far more suited to this job than he was.

_ But she had refused to come along _ .  _ Perhaps she is more sensible than we are.  _ So the duty fell to him. 

“Maybe. I’ll take point, though, and see,” he said. He didn’t want to have the party make it halfway across and then run into a stream that was twelve feet deep.  _ How many of them would be able to swim _ ?

“Take Relly with you,” Emilia said, and motioned to someone farther back in the column. Alasdair looked back over his shoulder to see a scrawny, weary man of about twenty years of age, wearing little more than breeches and a loose-fitting peasant’s shirt, approaching. He wore only a small dirk and a buckler, and was unarmored.

“Relly is a well-trained scout. He can help you,” Emilia said, and the man briefly introduced himself to Alasdair before the two of them set off down a gentle slope, encountering marshy terrain almost immediately.

“Good luck, bounty hunter,” Audrey teased him as he descended, smiling with uncanny delight. “We’ll be watching you.”

Alasdair did not respond and instead followed Relly as they moved into the mire, taking care to avoid the water as much as possible as they attempted to find a landward path to the other side.

Relly moved with surprising speed through the mire, taking care to avoid what appeared to be massive boulders submerged beneath the surface. One wrong footfall, one slip, could cost any of them. They were glad to find small islands of mud that they could use as landmarks, carefully navigating their way across the mire. Ten minutes passed by without incident when Alasdair realized that their destination was suddenly not that far away.

Alasdair glanced back and saw that individual persons sitting up on the hillock overlooking the mire were now indistinguishable. They were probably five hundred feet or so into the marsh, and the walls loomed ahead of them. The path ahead looked shallow, and passable by even the most clumsy of people.

“We should turn back,” he told Relly. “Get the others. We can cross here.”

Relly did not argue, simply shrugging his shoulders and falling in behind Alasdair as they retraced their steps, taking care in the most treacherous section to avoid stepping off of the miniature islands dotting the mire. They had returned within three minutes, confident of their team’s ability to get to the other side.

“We’ll lead,” Alasdair promised, motioning to Relly and himself. “Just follow close. Single file.”

Emilia seemed satisfied with the report and bid her team behind her to follow orders. For a brief second, Alasdair could see something different in her; where once stood a distinguished member of the nobility, positioned above the rank and file that surrounded her simply because of her status and blood, now stood a commander of men and women alike, taking charge of the situation with grace and certainty. 

_ Perhaps you’ve underestimated Emilia Lancette _ , he thought to himself, and shook the thought off. He had still not come to terms with the fact that Emilia, so accustomed to dispatching others to take care of her business for her, was now taking the lead for reasons yet unknown. 

With Relly a few feet ahead of him, Alasdair set off back into the bog, now more comfortable with more people at his back. Their path outlined before them, marked by the tiny islands like stepping stones, he was now more confident that they could make it to the other side without incident.

The waters about two hundred feet ahead, on his left side, rippled ever so slightly and then settled again. 

“Relly, you remember the way?” Alasdair called forward. The scout was moving a little too far ahead for comfort. Relly turned back and nodded, signaling to the bounty hunter that all was well.

Another disturbance in the water - and this one, Alasdair noticed. He dismissed it as abnormal current movements at first but when it popped up again, fifteen seconds later, his eyes darted back to it again.

_ Not a normal phenomenon _ , the more thoughtful part of his brain said. That part of his brain had saved his life before, and he was more than keen to listen to it now.

_ Watch that area. Keep your eyes peeled.  _

“Single file!” someone towards the back shouted. There was a hoarse yelp and Alasdair turned around to see that one of the guardsmen had lost his footing and fallen into the mire. Weighed down by his armor, he had struggled to get back to his feet after his accident, and was being helped by his comrades as Emilia shouted for them to get themselves into order. 

_ Something is moving your way.  _ The water was now very much disturbed, and Alasdair could spot something just barely above the water’s surface, something dark brown and camouflaged amid the algae and debris floating on the water’s surface.  _ It is moving towards you.  _

And it was moving fast. 

But it was not moving towards him in particular - it was moving towards the cluster of guardsmen and adventurers who were now struggling to get across a particularly deep section of the swamp, where they found themselves submerged up to the waist in brackish water that clung to them like sticky sap. The disturbance was keeping a low profile but it was no longer concerned about remaining entirely invisible and was picking up speed. 

“Relly,” Alasdair called ahead to the scout. “On your left. Look.”

Relly turned his head and immediately spotted the disturbance, which was closing to within fifty feet of the party. Either the others had not yet noticed it, or had disregarded it as a fish or other local wildlife that was not worth their attention.

“What is it?” Relly asked aloud, now having come to a stop. Behind him, Alasdair could sense that a few of the others had stopped moving, noticing the two men in the lead had halted.

“I don’t know,” Alasdair said. It was time to raise the alarm, though. 

“Look out on the left!” he shouted, turning to face the party behind him to alert them of the urgent nature of the matter.

It was too late, though.

The object moved with almost preternatural speed, closing the final twenty or so feet between itself and its target. With a mighty crash of rushing water, the threat revealed itself to all but its selected prey, who had barely a second to comprehend that he was under attack before powerful jaws closed around his neck and snapped it within an instant. 

Alasdair only recognized it as a crocodile because of a gaudy painting he had seen erected at a minstrel show some years back, which had frightened young and old alike with its grotesque and villainous features. Nothing that a twisted mind could paint, however, could compare to the leviathan beast that had launched itself into the middle of the adventuring party and, with the agility that only a loathsome creature could summon, had ended a man’s life in a mere second. 

The creature must have been at least thirty feet from snout to tail, perhaps even longer, its scaled body cloaked with algae and other pond scum. The scales had sloughed off of in several places, revealing pulsating flesh oozing thin rivulets of sickly blood. Its massive head bore jaws of frightening power, demarcated by protruding bones of impossible size, and within the jaw were rows of dagger-like teeth. The creature’s eyes were mere pinpoints in its muscular skull, dark as the night and even now seeking new prey in its quest for blood. 

Several people cried in surprise and another man shouted in terror as he fell off of his precarious landward perch and splashed into the water, knocked over by the force of the attack. The dead man, a guard by the looks of his battered armor, was tossed to the side by the crocodilian as it sought new prey. For a brief second, Alasdair prepared to draw his axe and take the fight to this new fiend, but he thought better of that as he watched one of the guards plunge his pike into the creature’s right flank, to no avail. The spear rolled off the creature’s scales and harmlessly bounced away, and the crocodile proceeded to pounce on the hapless woman who had attempted to spear it, tearing out her throat in a single vicious bite.

People began running. 

Relly was the first to start sprinting, rushing for the shoreline on the other side. Alasdair was not far behind him, but he kept glancing over his shoulder to make certain that his benefactor and her entourage were keeping up.

Emilia was far from the most athletic person but, dressed for rough conditions and driven by the desire to survive the terror at her back, she kept pace with the people on her flanks. They dashed from island to island, struggling through the water as quickly as possible, but they had nothing to fear. The crocodile, in its fury, had seized another man and dragged him under the water, his screams petering out as he was hauled down into the gloom. The creature did not resurface after that and the rest of the party, shaken, exhausted, and soaking wet, had reached the other side intact. 

They gathered in a little huddle and watched as the water in the middle of the swamp rippled and sloshed about menacingly, as though constantly reminding them of what lurked beneath. The crocodile was evidently feeding but there was no telling how long it would be before it hungered again; the first man to attempt to make a break for the other side might become a post-meal snack for the beast that had proven itself an overwhelming foe. Nobody moved back towards the swamp, but instead turned towards the wall, no more than six feet high, that now faced them. 

“Well, this is it,” Emilia said, taking charge of her group and attempting to rally them in spite of what had happened. “This is what we came for.”

Nobody spoke, stunned into silence.

_ And I cannot blame them _ , Alasdair thought.  _ No man could witness that without fear.  _

Even the veteran bounty hunter himself had quavered upon seeing the massive reptilian tear into their ranks like a hungry dog into a slab of meat. He was glad that they were on dry land once more, but wondered if the creature were bound to the water or if it could swim up onto land.

It did not appear to be pursuing them. It was content to patrol the mire at some distance, occasionally lashing out at a chunk of land with its tail and making a great scene to remind them that it was there, watching them.

Alasdair could feel something unpleasant rising from the pit of his stomach and suppressed it, turning away to face the wall that now stood before them. 

“What now?” someone asked. 

Emilia studied the wall briefly, running her hand along its jagged contours and faded nuances until she had made up her mind that it was neither friend nor foe, but simply  _ was.  _

“We find what we came here for,” she declared, reminding them once more that she was in charge and was leading the way. None dared to remain behind, choosing to stick with their liege and the fear of the great unknown than with a very familiar and very present terror in the swamp. 

They quietly followed the wall for a short distance until they found what appeared to be a chink in the armor, a portion of the superstructure that had collapsed due to age. Crumbling masonry and bits of worn stone marked the entrance to what would prove to be another world, as Alasdair stepped through the gap after Relly and gazed upon a courtyard that was lost to time. 


	4. The Inner Circle

The sun’s faltering light quickly acquired a crimson tone that reminded Alasdair of spilled blood. He shuddered to think of what foul vapors caused such an unusual visage to make itself apparent to this strange and alien world they had stepped into.

_Nothing about this place is quite right_ , he thought to himself, glancing left and right at all intersections to make sure he was alone in his endeavor. _Even the grass feels...out of place._

He could not even trust the loam beneath his feet. It was red like clay, and even the grass had a maroon tint to it. Everything in this damned estate, a separate entity from everything he had come to know in Tauros, seemed to be capable of bearing the descriptor _red_.

It was another few minutes before he spotted his target - a tree rooted in the land, and not submerged by water, something he could access without putting himself at risk. He carefully approached, passing several pools of stagnant green water covered in algal growths, wondering if this thing was really a tree at all.

Upon closer inspection it did appear to be an oak, regal even in its death throes, and it was the first tree that Alasdair had seen that had not been a gnarled old cypress rooted in a fetid bog. The oak bore no leaves and appeared to be decomposing even as it stood, but it did not appear harmful or unusual to him. So he set to work as quickly as he could, yearning for the security that the group had provided previously.

_This is no place to be alone_ , he thought. _Even on land, I don’t feel properly secure._ He kept glancing over his shoulders as he drove his axe into the lowest limb of the gnarled old giant, but nothing was nearby.

That was the problem.

They had entered a strange new world, bound off from the rest of the known world by that low stone wall. The swampy, murky courtyard they had stepped into was defined by ruin, desolation, and the wilderness that had overtaken what must have once been a luxurious estate. Cobblestone pathways and great hedge mazes created a labyrinth marked by decaying trees, stands of dead cypresses, crumbling buildings, and the remnants of what had once been the site of immense festivals. Corridors delineated by old marble walls and wrought iron gates shot off into the wilderness, their depths unplumbed by any living man, and here and there the waters of the swamp had taken hold, swallowing up cypress groves and parts of the hedge mazes.

All of it was as dead as a cemetery, too. No birds, no frogs, no small creatures writhing in the muck - just endless swarms of insects, mosquitoes as virulent as any and some the size of a man’s fingernail, eager to strike at any exposed flesh.

Alasdair hacked at the dead wood and carved it up, finding it giving way easily to his forceful blows. He did not want to be out there for too long, especially with the sun’s light waning and night approaching. Whatever things might be hiding in the shadows now, they would certainly be emboldened by nightfall. He remembered the few expeditions he had made out into the weald, and how frightening those had been when the sun went down and darkness reigned.

_Even then_ , he thought. _I knew that there were living creatures out there in the woods. Even if hostile, they were alive. What is here? Nothing._

He collected as much firewood as he could carry and then quickly paced off back in the direction he had come from, being careful to retrace his steps. Thankfully, the courtyard was rife with landmarks, be they the withered remains of old potted plants imported from distant realms or crumbling, unmaintained statues of royal personalities long forgotten by time. Within the span of fifteen minutes he was back at the camp, feeling more relieved now that he was in the presence of human beings who were most certainly not bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

_A nice change of pace._

The atmosphere in the makeshift encampment was subdued but at least people seemed to be recovering from the shock of that afternoon’s attack. They were eating now, and preparing themselves for a night spent in what could be a very hostile environment. Guards were being posted, spears were being sharpened, and Alasdair spotted Relly and the captain of the guard detachment, a man whose name remained unknown, going over the nearby terrain and its nuances.

In the center of it all, distinguished by a blue tent that stood out among the others, Emilia would be resting, certainly plotting their course forward.

_Don’t speak with her yet_ , he knew. _Wait until the crowd shoves off. Be quiet about it._

Alasdair took a seat on an unoccupied stump and watched as the group of seven or eight Desecrated Men that had joined them, seemingly unfazed by the day’s turn of events, gathered with their leader Emiliano and began a series of loud and obtrusive chants that seemed inappropriate in such a domain. A few of the camp’s residents shot glares at the flagellants but their opposing views were paid no mind, as Emiliano cared for little other than his twisted interpretation of faith.

Slowly the sun set.

A dismal red fog shrouded the night sky, turning the moonlight hazy, and more torches than usual were lit and staked around the camp, as to ward off any approaching evil that might emerge from the overgrown hedgerows. Even surrounded by torches and girded by a healthy fire near the center of the cluster of tents and bedrolls that passed for a camp, Alasdair felt uneasy as he was left alone sitting on his stump. He waited until all conversation ceased and the full grip of night took hold before he rallied himself and made a move towards Emilia’s tent, keeping his eyes on the purple fabric and ignoring the glares he got from the guards as he entered without invitation.

He was surprised to find that she was not alone.

Audrey the sneak thief sat on the floor, cozying up in a woolen blanket, and both of them looked surprised to see Alasdair’s sudden intrusion.

“Alasdair?” Emilia said.

“You,” Audrey said, in a more contemptuous tone of voice.

“Apologies...for that,” he said, half-assing his reply.

“You could have knocked,” Audrey grumbled.

“Hard to knock on a tent.”

She frowned but sat up, evidently accepting his presence as a guest in their tent.

“I again apologize for being hasty,” Alasdair said. “I needed to talk.”

“Alright. Take a seat.”

She offered Alasdair a blanket on which to sit. Furniture, unsurprisingly, was in short supply at such a makeshift camp. Emilia had herself a small wicker chair, put together in haste, but had nothing else in the room beyond her bedroll.

“I went down one of the pathways. Followed it to the edge of a swamp. Found a tree,” he reported.

“And got firewood?”

“Of course.”

_That had been my order_ , he thought, _and I follow my orders...as long as the reward remains._

“What did you see?”

“Less than I wanted to,” Alasdair admitted.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“This land is empty,” Alasdair said. “Have you not noticed?”

He gestured with his arm to the door of the tent, as if inviting her to experience the menacing, quiet world beyond the campsite for herself. She had seen enough of it already, though.

“I have.”

“Not even birds,” he said.

“I know.”

“What more do you know?”

Alasdair was not as pleasant, polite, or patient as Reynauld had been. That crusader, for all of his worth as a swordsman, was too diplomatic and kind for his own good. Alasdair had been reared in a different manner, however, and he knew from living vicariously through the crusader that Emilia would lie to anyone to achieve her own goals, even if she believed she was doing good.

“Careful now,” Audrey warned. She sat up straighter and uncovered herself, as though moving to challenge him.

“I’m not doing any harm,” Alasdair sneered at her. _Let the sneak thief threaten you_ , something in his head said. _You’re better with an axe than she is with a dirk._

“Not necessary, Audrey,” Emilia said.

“I only want to know,” Alasdair said.

“I’ve already told you what I know.”

“Are you certain about that?”

Audrey appeared ready to shed blood. He wasn’t sure what made her so protective of her employer, but he appreciated the loyalty all the same. _A rare trait in someone who digs up graves for a living_.

“What prompted this?” Emilia inquired, calmer than her companion.

“How long have we known each other, Emilia?” Alasdair asked.

“A little more than two and a half months,” Emilia figured.

“And in that time you’ve come to know me well,” said Alasdair.

“I know you’re a good fighter. And a stalwart man.”

“That’s good.”

“But what does this have to do with anything?”

Alasdair paused. He wanted to piece his thoughts together. Any mistake, any stumbling, and he would find himself at square one once more.

“I need you to trust me. I stand here now because of you,” Alasdair continued. “And Reynauld and Dismas.”

“They rescued you.”

“I would’ve died without their aid and your hospitality,” he said. “I owe a lot to you.”

Emilia seemed perplexed but intent on finding out where Alasdair was going. Audrey was silent, her face taut and grim.

“I have no intention of betraying you or harming you,” Alasdair promised. “But I need to know what’s here and what you know. What you haven’t told us. What you’re looking for.”

He paused again.

“All of it.”

Emilia turned and nodded her head briefly at Audrey, who rose and moved towards Alasdair. For a split second, the bounty hunter wondered if he had gone too far this time, and had elicited Emilia’s wrath for his obnoxious and obstinate behavior. But she moved on past him and accessed a small wooden chest, bound with a silver lock that stood out against the dull backgrounding of the cherry wood, and opened it up. From within she extracted several sheets of vellum paper, withered with age, and gently handled them until she found the one she was looking for.

“The purpose of this expedition is more than just exploration,” Emilia informed him. “We’re hunting.”

“Well, I like the sound of that.” _I am a bounty hunter, after all. What’s in a name?_

Audrey did not hand the piece of paper to him, obviously not trusting a perceived neophyte like Alasdair with something so precious, but she gave him a description of its contents.

“We’ve looked through Remus Lancette’s memoirs and journals and everything else he left behind,” she started. “He had a gold mine left in his archive.”

_Old man left a paper trail_ , Alasdair thought. _Now that was a mistake on his part._

Audrey began rattling off a list of names that, at first, sounded like nonsense to Alasdair, scattered memories put down on paper for no purpose other than a lasting _memento mori._

_Desmond Shornlock._

_Leonardo Bario._

_Iain Aporcrosan._

_Severus..._

_James..._

_Marcus…_

_Remus Lancette._

Emilia hesitated on that last name, as if she had not expected it to show up.

“These men are all dead,” Emilia said. “So I assumed.”

“Things that die here tend to come back,” Alasdair said, repeating a phrase he had heard before from several people, something that had been stuck in his head for the past couple of days.

“Yes, but I have reason to believe one of these men never actually died.”

Now that was enough to give him pause.

“You think one of these bastards has been alive for a century without anyone else knowing?”

“Yes, and he is here.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“Listen to this.”

Emilia took the stack and flipped through another set of papers until she found the one that she was looking for. She read aloud to both Audrey and Alasdair, who listened carefully.

 

_“To my dearest friend,_

 

_I have written you a missive previously about the vexing problem of our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bario, whose seemingly abiding appetite for the pleasures we partake of here has been on the tongues of many as of late. In particular, the Baron Samuel of Berryngtonn has raised complaints with me about verbal and physical abuse directed towards his own serving staff, who have suffered very corporeal injuries at the hands of a Leonardo that we no longer recognize._

_I fear that what I tell you henceforth must be kept utterly confidential, as unforeseen disclosure may put us at the unpredictable mercy of our fellows. You know some little of my experiments that I have kept to myself in a rather conspiratorial manner. I have shared some information with you, and my good friend Mr. Hanek, whom I’ve had the pleasure of receiving several times to discuss the disquieting details of my studies of the stars. But now let me make it very clear: my experiments have become the cause of a number of woes, which pertain to the very issue that I delineated at the start of this letter._

_Mr. Bario’s insurmountable appetite and newfound preternatural strength are a result of a malaise that has taken hold of him thanks to unexpected phenomena, caused by my own meddlings. I admit to my fault now but assure you that a solution to the problem is in my hands and will be fully realized shortly. I may require your assistance though - thus necessitating this letter. Please respond at your earliest convenience. Mr. Bario remains here, in our present stomping grounds, occupied with the endless flow of luxuries I have been sending his way. Here he will stay until we are able to confront him, together._

 

_Yours confidentially,_

_Remus Lancette, Baron of Tauros”_

 

Emilia stopped speaking and it was only then that Alasdair realized how _quiet_ it was outside of the tent. A lackluster breeze stirred the tent flap but the world of the courtyard was silent beyond the wind. No birds, no crickets, not even tree frogs; deathly silence reigned.

“Is there more?” Alasdair asked.

“Unfortunately.” Emilia pulled out another slip of parchment, this one far more worn and with torn edges, and read aloud.

 

_“4th of October, 1622_

 

_Not certain of date. Raining once more today. I can hear that errant profusion of flesh in the tunnels beneath. Squelching. Even here its sounds reach my ears. It wanders aimlessly, likely consuming my other failures and leaving nothing but waste in its wake._

_I can feel that man. Ialdagorth, he calls himself now. He stalks his prison cell, eager for his opportunity to strike. He practices his craft below, pushing it farther than I ever could, showing me true power over death._

_And that woman...I forgot her name even. Forgot her face. So twisted is she with the ones she led astray. Is she still here? Does she watch from her wicked hovel, peeling the flesh from the bone and waiting for her moment to sneak in and slit my throat?_

_And I can smell the creature I once called my friend. Leonardo, my acquaintance turned perverse...I saw him two weeks ago. Wretched, mutating, more beast or insect than man now. Still intelligent. Terribly intelligent. Writes me letters...tells me of how he eats. And eats and eats. Of how he still has those poor serving girls kept around. Tells me how he plays with them and tortures them. Invites me to join a feast._

_The worst part is they will all outlive me, I am sure of it. For I have made my choice now. No unending feast or eternal prison for me. I have chosen the vigil. A different sort of eternity._

 

_Romulus. I am sorry. You will return here one day._

 

_Remus Lancette.”_

 

“You make an assumption.”

“About what?”

“That someone hasn’t already killed this...creature.”

Emilia frowned, apparently displeased that her read-aloud hadn’t visibly moved Alasdair. In truth, he felt incredibly uncomfortable, but that was more due to the unnatural silence outside the tent than to anything she had read from the letters.

“I suppose we don’t know for sure,” she admitted.

“But your grandfather thought this thing would live on?”

“Possessed of the same immortality as that necromancer, perhaps,” she said. “Or whatever else lies beneath the manor.”

“This place has been undisturbed for a century, correct?” Audrey chimed in.

“So we believe,” Emilia said.

“Then we have reason to believe that whatever remained behind may still be here.”

“Who is this Leonardo Bario?” Alasdair asked. He required context, and he still felt like he wasn’t getting the full picture.

“The records indicate that he was the Baron of Heronios, third of his name,” Emilia said. “A companion of my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather spent a lot of time with noblemen.”

“Well, being a nobleman himself-”

“What happened with the House of Bario?”

Emilia paused, bereft of the answer. Alasdair approached from another angle.

“Who is the current Baron of Heronios?”

“Lucente Ramasiani.” Emilia knew immediately - being a noblewoman herself, of course she was familiar with the titleholders around her.

“So not a Bario,” Alasdair concluded.

“No.”

“What, then, happened to the Bario family?”

Alasdair was already making the connections on his own, even if Emilia knew the answers and wasn’t as quick to reveal them. Leonardo Bario had been the third and perhaps last of his name, and he may still be within the courtyard - Alasdair couldn’t understand how, but he had come to accept that nothing in Tauros was normal anymore. The supernatural, the unspeakable, the strange and untrue were all the norm.

“They died off,” Emilia informed him. “Leonardo never returned from Tauros. His son was slain in a duel. His titles were disinherited.”

“Then he is here. Either dead, or alive,” Alasdair concluded.

“Yes,” Emilia said. “And that is why we have come.”

“To find that out?”

“Not just that,” Emilia corrected. “All of those names I read out to you? Part of my grandfather’s inner circle.”

“Mysterious.”

Audrey scoffed at Alasdair’s snarky remark.

“A group of men who were all just as vile and thoughtless as Remus was,” Emilia said. “They are dead now. But they left behind more than just gold. More than just bad memories.”

“And what does that mean?”

Emilia failed to offer a response but Alasdair could see it in her eyes; no matter how he asked, she wasn't going to tell him.


	5. Old Friends

Alasdair was the first one up that day, a privilege normally reserved for whoever was supposed to be on morning duty. But the guard who was designated as the early-morning watchman was fast asleep in his tent still when Alasdair went looking for him. A good, hard kick to the ribs with his leather boot woke the man and put him into action quite promptly, and Alasdair was satisfied with the result. 

Even though it was supposedly a little past dawnbreak, the camp was still bathed in darkness when he did his rounds, searching the perimeter for any signs of a disturbance or uncouth activity beyond their ring of torches. A faint, dead bloodlight seeped through a thick curtain of fog, but it may as well have been the middle of the night for all that Alasdair could tell.

_ Everything about this place is off _ , he thought to himself,  _ why am I surprised about this?  _

Most of the camp was still asleep when he finished his rounds and returned to the campfire at the center. The flames had nearly died, their last reserves of fuel consumed hours ago, but the enigmatic woman who had worn the strange mask still sat there, working on something and muttering to herself in a most perplexing manner. Sitting on the tainted ground in front of her, amid scattered scraps of cloth and several dingy metal tools, sat a couple of earthenware jars of a strange reddish concoction, which reminded Alasdair of the tomato paste that you could buy in the larger markets down south. He was about to walk past her and pretend that he had seen nothing when she stopped him cold.

“You’re going to want some of this,” she said, and Alasdair realized by the clarity of her voice that she wasn’t wearing her mask. The hood of her cloak had been cast over her head but she was not fully disguised like she had been previously. He turned around to face her, no doubt expecting something mad or uncouth out of her. 

“Some of what?” Alasdair asked, keeping his distance from the queer woman and her unusual designs. For the first time he noticed the vials and containers of chemicals sequestered in a disorganized cluster on her right side, which had not been visible to Alasdair before. Having attained a new angle, he could see everything that she had removed from her pack, and he wondered how she had managed to stow all of that away in a simple knapsack. 

“Have the bugs been bothering you?”

“A bit,” Alasdair said. He had been bitten a few times, but the thick layers of sturdy cloth and leather that he wore provided ample protection. The only place that the mosquitoes had been able to obtain purchase was on the back of his neck, which was unguarded even by his helm. 

“I’ve got something for that.”

Alasdair snorted but drew closer when she picked up one of the paste containers and extended it to him. 

“A repellant, of sorts.”

“You made this?”

“Been up all night.”

_ A real craftswoman, you are _ . Alasdair took a glance at the odd paste, which smelled like mildew and stagnant water but appeared clean and well-mixed. He took a small swipe at it, taking two fingers to the buttery salve, and applied it sparingly to the back of his neck. The paste stung a little bit on contact but the feeling evaporated quickly, and he hardly knew it was there after a minute’s time.

“Do you know if it works?” he asked.

“You’re the first to try it,” she said. “You tell me.”

“How did you make it?”

The woman chuckled, the first time he had heard emotion seep into her voice.

“A good magician never reveals his tricks,” she replied, and Alasdair took a moment to get a good look at her face. Judging by her dark complexion and sharp facial features, she was no local, nor even a resident of the north. What little hair she had on her head was short and stubby, black as coal, and she had a few scars along her jaw that told a story of past troubles and vicious scrapes. 

“This is your living, I suppose?”

“Don’t know if I’d call it a living, yet,” she said. 

“Well, if this thing works,” Alasdair said, as he parted ways, “you may have a future ahead of you.” That was perhaps the friendliest response he could muster as a way of saying goodbye. 

He hadn’t gotten the stranger’s name, and he wasn’t particularly interested in making a new friend, but all the same he was glad that she was a bit more familiar now. 

When he entered Emilia’s tent, he was surprised to find that Audrey wasn’t there. Either she had also gotten up early, and had managed to sneak out undetected or...well, Alasdair couldn’t think of another reason why she wouldn’t be present.

“Where’s your grave robber?” he asked when he stepped inside.

“Out scouting,” Emilia reported.

“That’s my job.”

“Well, you should tell that to her. She seemed eager to please.”

Alasdair did not like that.

“Well, we ought to strike camp soon. Do you have our next move planned out?”

“Been thinking about this after yesterday’s discussion,” Emilia said, already packing up her belongings and preparing to move. “We need to get an idea of where we are.”

“I’ve been trying to do that,” Alasdair admitted, “but it hasn’t been easy.”

“Aren’t you a fairly accomplished scout?”

“This place is a labyrinth. Even the best of the best will find it difficult to navigate,” Alasdair said, but feel like he had just been slighted regardless. 

“Well, Audrey seems like she’ll do a fine job.”

The subtle inflection in her voice bothered him, and he wondered why he had come calling upon her at all if he was just going to end up slighted like this. 

“I still want you and Relly to be at the vanguard, though,” she said, noticing his discomfiture. “When we move out today.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Agreed.”

She dismissed him after that. Audrey and Emilia had an unusual relationship and that was all that he knew. Whatever thoughts he had about the grave robber and her snarky, off-putting disposition, he’d save them for his next round of drinks with Dismas, Reynauld, and Cordelia. 

The bloodlight was growing more pronounced and the diffusion of the cloak of mist around the camp was evident as dawn finally started to break, giving him some comfort. The masked woman was now speaking to a couple of the guardsmen, advertising her new concoction to them, and Alasdair realized that for the first time since arriving within the confines of the courtyard, he was not being assailed by mosquitoes. Either he was in luck, favored by something greater than him, or the woman’s ointment had worked. 

“I won’t take poison from a damned witch doctor,” one of the guards spat, so loudly that several heads in the camp turned. Alasdair glanced over and realized that the guardsmen had suddenly become very hostile, perturbed by something that the woman had said or done, and that the situation was turning. 

“Yeah, what are you trying to pawn off on us?” the other added. 

Alasdair made his way over to the confrontation, intent on defusing things before they took off. Regardless of their intentions and regardless of what she was trying to do for them, conflict was the last thing their team needed when they were cut off from home, in a hostile environment, and beset with a plague of insects. 

“Relax, lads,” he interrupted. “It’s nothing harmful.”

“You know this woman?” said the first guard, a haggard and tall man with a patchy beard. His chainmail was covered by a brown tabard with the emblem of House Lancette stitched into the chestpiece, its contours and details worn and several jagged slashes evident in the fabric. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen her,” the other guard, a plump and soft looking man with a wispy mustache and watery eyes, added. 

“She’s the one with the mask, right?” the first asked. 

“Aye,” Alasdair said, glancing over towards the still-nameless face. She looked ready for a scrap. 

“She’s a witch,” the fat man said. “She practices dark magic.”  

“She seems alright to me.”

“Have you seen what she’s giving to us?”

The first guardsman pointed to one of the containers of dark red cream. The ointment still smelled rancid and made Alasdair’s eyes water, but he could attest to its harmlessness, at the very least.

_ Maybe it just hasn’t had time to kill you yet _ , an unwanted voice in the back of his head said, but he buried his paranoia and took up the strange woman’s side.

“I put it on my skin myself earlier this morning,” Alasdair informed them, and both raised their eyebrows. “And I’m standing here right now, aren’t I?”

“You’re fine now,” the first guard attempted to argue. “But what about tomorrow? Or the next day?”

“She’s not trying to harm you,” Alasdair promised. “Accept her offer, or don’t. If anyone starts a fight, they’ll be answering to me.”

The two looked as though they were intent on continuing, but they either had enough respect for Alasdair to take his word for it, or decided against making a scene as the scouts returned to camp. They dispersed and Audrey and Relly, coming from different directions, met at the campfire where Alasdair was standing.

“Thank you for that,” the mystery woman said quietly, stashing her jars back in her satchel sheepishly. Now that the conflict had ground to a halt and been buried, she had buried her own metaphorical hatchet and was eager to move past it.

“It was nothing. You must be used to that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean?”

Alasdair wanted to say  _ look at you, the color of your skin, your hair, your eyes, they can see it and so can I _ , but even a rugged man of the road like himself had enough decorum to avoid bringing that topic up. 

“Your craft is unknown to them,” he said. “They’re...not used to it. They are afraid.”

“Well, they should be,” she chuckled. “The things I could do to them…” She smiled broadly and Alasdair returned the favor even though he was now a little concerned that he had chosen the right side. But he decided to ameliorate things and move on. 

“What is your name?” He made sure to ask the crucial question before he forgot. She smiled at that, too, as though surprised that someone cared enough to inquire.

“Badu. Badu Okanju.”

“Alasdair,” he replied, giving her no smile but a firm handshake of his own. “Take care of yourself.”

She turned away and walked off as Emilia exited her tent, ready to move. Trading the silk and satin of the noblewoman for the base leather and rough-hewn wool of an adventurer, she looked as rough and ready as any other man or woman in the party. At her hip was her blade, a thin and brittle-looking smallsword entrenched within a gilded sheath, and on her back was a small shoulder-mounted satchel where she was likely keeping her most precious cargo. Books, scrolls, antiquities - all of the mysteries inherent to a Lancette.

_ Nothing I need to know any more about _ , he wanted to say, but he knew that she had been hiding more from him. She wouldn’t tell him anything unless she was pressed for the truth, and she treated Reynauld and her retainers the same way. Sometimes Alasdair wondered if she was ever completely honest with anybody. 

“Well, what news?” Emilia asked the scouts, as the rest of the camp pulled down their tents, wrapped up their survival gear, and made preparations to march.

“We’re virtually surrounded by swampland,” Audrey said. “But there’s a way forward. A small section of the courtyard that’s not flooded.”

“Nothing on my side,” Relly said. “It’s all...swamp.”

“The way out passes through a hedgerow but we should be able to find our way through. It’s not too complicated,” Audrey said.

“What’s on the other side?” Emilia asked.

“Crumbling buildings...old monuments. All degraded.”

Standing there beside the dead fire, reduced to a pile of ashes on a ground of brown and reddish dirt, Alasdair caught a whiff of something foul on the wind. Not something that was congenital to the normal domain of the weald, such as decomposing foliage or stagnant mud, but something almost pleasant...like perfume, but masking a sickly sweet odor that reminded him of rotting fish. 

No one else seemed perturbed, so as the scent passed he decided to file it away in his head and think nothing of it. 

“We’ll move that way, then,” Emilia declared. “Suffice to say we cannot turn back.”

Emilia’s proclamation was no doubt of great concern to the assembled camp followers, guardsmen, and zealots, but she was not wrong. Unless a great stroke of luck were to impose upon them, they would not get back to the other side of the swamp without severe casualties. 

_ But what lies ahead?  _ That was the question on Alasdair’s mind as they packed up their gear and moved to the north, in the direction of the coast.

* * *

 

About an hour had passed, not a long time, before he picked up the unusual scent again. That uncanny smell, out of place in such a dismal location like the forgotten fens of the Lancette courtyard, caught him unawares and made him stop in his tracks. He had to keep moving when one of Emiliano’s followers, a sour and rhadamanthine man with half of his face concealed by a ragged white hood, bumped into him and urged him to move forward with a harsh command. He jogged a bit to catch up with Relly at the head of the column. 

Something was not right. Perhaps it was the atmosphere? It certainly had that effect; morale and energy were already flagging, as the assault by insects was relentless and the humidity of the swamp drained them as they marched. Even though it was nearly the end of October and autumn had set in elsewhere, the mires of the courtyard seemed to be stuck in the grip of summer.

Alasdair wiped sweat from his brow and was on the verge of lifting his nasal helmet up and off of his head to give himself some relief when he caught that scent again, stronger now. It was enough to give him concern, and he broke ranks once more to speak to Emilia, leaving a confused Relly alone in the vanguard.

“What’s going on?” Emilia asked as Alasdair fell back to her position. She had already seen him stop at the wayside once, and now her face was a mask of concern as well, owing to the fact that Alasdair was acting in an unnatural manner.

“Something’s amiss.”

That was all he had to say to get her to bring the column to a halt. The armored guards, the zealots, the various adventurers and the followers all came to a stop, waiting in the middle of a pathway buttressed by wild thorn bushes on one side and a pool of murky water on the other. 

“What do you think it is?”

“Do you smell anything?”

Emilia turned her nose upwards and the others around her did the same. Apparently they did not smell anything off, for they shook their heads and Alasdair felt foolish.

“What did you smell?” Emilia inquired. 

“Just something...uncanny.” He wasn’t sure if lavender would be considered an abnormal scent, but given the context he was thoroughly perturbed by its presence. Unless there was a field of wild lavender waiting for them up ahead, something was wrong. 

“Well, we ought to keep moving,” she said, deciding that they were secure for the time being. Alasdair grunted his response and moved back forward to rejoin Relly, embarrassed that he had brought their march to a stop for nothing. 

“What was it?” Relly asked.

“Nothing.” Alasdair’s reply was unnecessarily curt. Relly bit his tongue sheepishly and continued walking, keeping pace with Alasdair until the latter caught that smell again.

This time, it was  _ much  _ stronger, and much more sickening. He paused and clutched at his stomach, feeling bile rising through his gullet. Relly stopped too, and sniffed at the air, catching it too. For the first time since marching out, Alasdair didn’t feel like a fool, as someone else had joined him. 

“You smell it?”

“Yeah,” Relly said. 

They were at a crossroads, a junction in some unkempt hedge maze with overgrown hedges and thick stands of clumpy, sickly-looking weeds. The path forked in three different directions, and the two men came to a halt as the unusual scent assaulted them and the rest of the party caught up.

“Hold up,” Alasdair called back. Relly was looking anxious, as the unexpected smell of rich perfume became more apparent to him. 

A few of the adventurers exchanged wary glances. Emilia grimaced and Audrey’s eyes darted back and forth, as though searching for something out of the ordinary. 

“Which way forward?” someone in the party asked, and another echoed his concern.

“Alasdair?” Emilia said, as if asking him for his status.

“Do you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

Emilia didn’t get a chance to receive an answer before the pungent smell became overwhelming and perhaps a dozen misshapen, fleshy bodies erupted from the hedgerows with a distinctly human set of wails, groans, and shouts. Alasdair barely had time to withdraw his axe and deflect the first swipe, then shoved his attacker back, stumbling him with a willful blow from the butt of his axe.

The creature that now stood in front of him was some horrifying cross between a man and an insect, by the looks of it. It stood on two legs and possessed two arms and a head, however misshapen, and even wore ragged, outdated clothing that had been virtually bleached of color. Yet it was horrid all the same, no matter how much it could resemble a human. It had light grey skin, punctuated by mottled areas of darker gray and bright red lesions, and all of the hair on its body had long since fallen off. The skin was taut on its bones, its arms gangly and twisted, and in place of facial features it possessed only a set of dark, lifeless eyes and a long, sharpened keratin structure protruding from its face resembling the proboscis of a mosquito. 

The creature screeched at him - no, it  _ buzzed  _ and made some kind of high-pitched, angry whine - before he brought his axe down between its eyes and crushed its skull. The abomination’s brittle bones and taut skin gave way easily and it collapsed, only to be replaced by another, stronger-looking specimen with a crude, rusty gardening implement as a weapon. 

Alasdair had been longing for a good scrap with something nasty, and he had gotten it. His heart pounded in his temples, his eyes grew strained and hot as he focused his mind, and he could feel sweat brimming on the back of his neck as he danced around, dodging the swiping attacks of his opponent while simultaneously keeping an eye on Emilia and her nearest guards.

Even though Emilia had her own martial support and was girded on both sides by Audrey and Badu, she had drawn her own blade and was seeking blood as the abominations swarmed around them, bearing a wide variety of tools, weapons, and makeshift instruments. 

_ Don’t worry about them.  _

Relly’s athletic nature was of great advantage to him, as he was able to dodge several vicious attacks by another aggressive little creature bearing a rusty old dirk. The youth was too preoccupied with dodging to attack with his own weapon, though, and looked frightened and confused as he took several steps backward, cowed by his opponent.

_ Don’t worry about him.  _

Alasdair’s mouth was bone dry and sweat poured down his collarbones. He deflected another swipe from his opponent and caught the monster off guard. His axe found flesh once, and then twice, and the ugly proboscis-head was decapitated. 

_ Focus on yourself. Get to killing.  _

He next brought his axe to bear upon the vermin that taunted Relly. The lad was unable to get his own blow in, so distraught was he and so occupied with dodging incoming attacks. Alasdair did the job for him, and in a single strike he had cloven the creature’s head in twain and rendered it no longer a threat.

_ They’re easy prey. Who’s next? _

Alasdair’s fury was peaking when the gunshot rang out. His ears rang and his head swam with the force of the shockwave as, not five feet away, a musket roared.

But the bullet was not meant for him. Looking over Relly’s shoulder, he saw the chaos that he had been ignoring undulate and mutate like a wave, as the resolve of the party began to melt. The attackers swarmed the defenders, grasping at spears and hacking away at shields and armor with rusty weapons as they drove on. One of the Desecrated Men, isolated from his companions, was thrashing in the mud as three of the abominations pulled him down and jabbed their probosci into his soft tissue, spraying blood all over the tainted soil. Bodies lay sprawled across the pathway, dead men and dead monsters, and Alasdair saw Emilia in the thick of it all, her riding leathers and shortsword spattered with blood.

One of the guards nearest to Emilia had collapsed, a hole punched through his chainmail. He struggled to get back to his feet, very nearly at the mercy of the insects who swarmed around him, and was saved only by Audrey, who swept in with her dagger and pickaxe and drove the creatures back with a hail of blows. Two of them fell to the ground, never to rise again.

Alasdair turned around to face the source of the gunfire. He found himself ten feet away from a tall, almost imposing creature wearing a worn riding coat, a dessicated powdered wig, and a facial expression that could only be described as a  _ treacherous leer _ . The wheellock pistol he carried was pointed directly at Emilia now, threatening her as she stood there, exposed to it. Alasdair wanted to jump the beast and slay it before it had a chance to carry out its dreadful plans, but several other creatures swarmed to the defense of their more imposing kinsman, and Alasdair and Relly were forced to fall back or risk being surrounded. 

But the creature did not fire, nor did it launch another attack. It seemed to gather its minions to its side, those that survived anyway, even as the humans tried to press the attack. Alasdair could feel his pulse in his ears but he held his ground, waiting for something to happen.

The thing spoke.

“You….Lancette.”

The words sounded strained, as though the individual syllables were painful to pronounce. The tall monster stepped forward, its proboscis vacillating a little bit in a way that made Alasdair feel ill. It lowered its pistol slightly but kept its beady, haunting eyes trained firmly on Emilia, who returned the gaze with interest. 

“Lancette blood.”

The fiend hissed and Alasdair swore he could see it grow more agitated, as though aroused. He noticed too that Emilia was bleeding - a thin rivulet of crimson ran down her cheekbone from a small gash above her jawline.

“So long...since you’ve been...smelled.”

Emilia visibly cringed and took a few steps forward. Audrey rushed to stop her but was rebuffed. 

“You recognize me?” she called out.

“Your blood...carries his smell,” the creature rasped. Emilia’s cheeks visibly paled as she connected the dots.

“My grandfather,” she said, as if to confirm.

“Old friends...do not forget,” the monster hissed, lowering its weapon to the point where it had virtually disengaged from combat. 

Emilia stopped in her tracks as the creatures around the speaker began to disperse, quickly vanishing back into the underbrush before they could be caught. Alasdair caught glimpses of furtive, beady eyes and bloody probosci before they disappeared. 

“Old friends remember...and you are hereby invited...to reminisce with us.”

And with a flick of his pistol and a leap to the left, he was gone into the brush, leaving behind nothing but a set of footprints in the loam and an unnerving scent that seemed to linger for far too long. 


End file.
